The Cycle
by super ario
Summary: Lance Sweets never wanted to hurt anyone. He only wanted to help.


_**Author's Note:** I don't even know where this came from. I have way too many Bones stories that I left unfinished so I do feel a little guilty adding this one to my collection, but I couldn't help it. The idea came to me and it wouldn't leave. It had to be done. That said, I am leaving this as a one-shot for now. However, if there's anyone who is interested in seeing something more like this do let me know. I have some ideas that could work. I'm just not sure if there's enough interest for that sort of thing. Until next time, happy reading!_

 _ **Disclaimer:** Bones is not mine. Although if it was, the season 10 premiere never would have happened._

* * *

He'd always wanted to help people.

It had been his thought, his belief, for so long that if he could only do something to help people - to _save_ people - he would no longer have to look at himself as such a monster. He would no longer have to wake up hating who he was, and what he was, if only he could make at least a little difference for someone else. If only he could help things change for the better. If only he could make things easier for someone other than himself.

Lance Sweets never wanted to hurt anyone. He only wanted to help.

It was hard, even after so many years, to remind himself that he was doing what he wanted. That he was making a difference in the lives of many people who needed his guidance and assistance. That he was there to help those people get through things they'd never be able to get through on their own. Things they'd never be able to get through with the aid of just another average Joe.

He was different from the other doctors.

It was true that he was good with his words. With his feelings. Lance had always been good at helping people through sticky situations. He'd always housed an overwhelming sense of compassion and sympathy. Understanding. A yearning to put others above himself. Always. He always tried to stop unnecessary suffering when he could help it. And it only made sense that he became a psychologist. His family and friends had always said so. It made sense because he was just that kind of person. Always trying to take care of people that needed taking care of. Always trying to be the one to offer his shoulder when someone needed one lent. He had been made for this sort of job, they said. And this sort of job had been made for him.

Lance thought about this and laughed to himself, though it was devoid of any real amusement. People had always thought he was some sort of genius. Some sort of prodigy. How could they not? He was so young. He had two doctorates. He was more accomplished than most in his short life. He'd been working at the FBI now for nearly three years, yet he'd come in as one of the youngest profilers ever employed by the bureau when he'd taken office at the young age of 22. Nobody had taken him seriously then - and sometimes people didn't take him seriously now, despite his impeccable record. He didn't blame people for doubting him. He didn't blame them then and he didn't blame them now. After all, he was still just a kid in their eyes. After all, he didn't have the life experience to understand how exactly the world worked. He wasn't wise enough to be right all the time. No matter how high his IQ was. No matter how many pieces of fancy paper he had. Not matter how many cases he helped solve. No matter how many agents he helped through divorces, depressions...

He didn't know anything. How _could_ a kid like him know anything?

Sometimes he wished people could see him for who he really was - a well educated and well experienced doctor. Maybe everyone saw him as someone young and impressionable, sometimes perhaps a little too naïve. And maybe that was true. He could admit that sometimes he tried so hard to see the good in people, in things, that he failed to be completely realistic. It wasn't always such a bad thing. He had to have hopes. He had to try to see things from an optimist's perspective. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him grounded, even when in the back of his mind he knew that he was dreaming too much. Sometimes it was the only thing that stopped the horrors of their everyday life from eating him alive. With the type of work that they dealt with at the FBI and the Jeffersonian, with murder and death and crime, it was only fair that he had something comforting to latch onto - even if it was, at times, false hope and youthful naiveté. He didn't deny that sometimes he approached things from a guileless standpoint, but that didn't mean he didn't know anything. That didn't mean he hadn't lived an experienced life.

Sometimes he had to play the kid to protect himself, from work and from other people. It was the only way he could get by in this world, safety and sanity intact.

So when people told him that he was too young, and too inexperienced, to be taken seriously, he felt beyond frustrated. How could they possibly know what sort of life he'd been through? How could they ever know what sort of life he'd lived before? They didn't know him. They didn't know who he was or where he came from. They didn't know what he saw and what he did. So maybe they could read his file in the database. Maybe they'd tell him he came from Nyack. That he went to this school for this degree, that he interned here, that he once worked at this record store there. Perhaps they could piece together pieces of stories he shared every once in a blue moon, to get an idea of his background and his upbringing. But they didn't really know. Lance had seen so much and had been through so much and there was just no way he could explain that to them in a way that was easy for them to understand.

It was easy to say he'd had a troubled childhood, but then again that didn't say much at all. Who didn't have troubled childhoods these days? He wasn't any special or different for that. And he didn't want to be known for that sort of thing anyway. He wanted to be known for the person he was now and not the person he was years ago. After all, he'd worked so hard to get to this point and keeping up with the day to day was something he found absolutely necessary for his own health. There was no good done brooding on the time gone. It was more important to him that people liked him and respected him for who he turned out to be and did not judge him by the person he was once before. It was why, despite everything, he had such a difficult time opening up about his past. About personal things that were left behind him. Even when he wished so desperately that he could tell and show everyone just what had happened to him before his life in DC, if only to just make them understand that he wasn't just a dumb kid who couldn't be trusted to do his job right and well, Lance knew that keeping his past in the past was the best decision for everyone. Not just him. Things like that were simply better forgotten. Or, at least in his case, hidden at the back of his mind.

If he shared too much, people would ask too many questions. If he shared too much, it could be impossible to stop. After all, he'd kept so much in his memories that by now they were overflowing. Sometimes it felt as thought his head would burst or his chest would cave in on itself. Sometimes Lance thought that wouldn't be such a bad thing to have happen. Sometimes he wished that he could, if only for a moment, slip into the darkness and not be molested by the excruciating passing of time. But death would not be the answer. Death had never been an answer for him. Death was something he was working for and against. Without death, he'd have no job. Without death, he'd have no work to do. Without death, life was meaningless.

Still, sometimes Lance wished he could do something else. Even though working in this field of work was satisfying to him - after all, he really did feel like he was making a positive difference in this world by catching serial killers and bringing justice to their victims and families - he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't enough. Sometimes he felt like such a hypocrite. Sometimes he felt like he was just fooling himself and everyone around him. It was true that he hadn't always been completely honest with his friends and co-workers. After all, they'd never be able to understand what he wanted to explain to them even if he tried. But living every passing day pretending he was happy with what he was doing was not right. Living every passing day telling people to share their feelings and let themselves heal was also not right because, the majority of the time, he couldn't even take his own advice. Lance knew what he was doing for people was a good thing. That it was a good way to help. But sometimes even that felt like it lacked substance. Sometimes even that left him feeling empty inside.

He couldn't always fix people. He couldn't always fix things that didn't need fixing. No matter how hard he tried or wanted to, he couldn't fix death.

Death wasn't bad or wrong. Death wasn't even the end. He didn't have to have faith in it - he _knew_ , quite well, that death was only the beginning. He knew that it was nothing to fear or stress over. Everybody died when it was their time, no matter what way. That was the circle of life. It was just the way the universe worked. There was no use in trying to prevent something so natural, and so beautiful, from occurring when it had to. It was necessary. But even though Lance knew this, he sometimes wished he could. Sometimes all he wanted was to stop the never-ending cycle once and for all, if only to just give himself a little break to catch his breath.

Just five minutes. He only needed five minutes.

But those five minutes were never going to come. They'd never come before and he knew better than to hope they would come in the near or distant future. Lance was smarter than to believe things would get easier. He knew too much. He knew more than what felt right to know. And the more he learned about the way things really were, the more weight was added on his shoulders. Over his head. The more he felt his head would burst. The more he felt his chest would cave in on itself, exposing his insides like the hollow center of a chocolate bunny at Easter.

Those five minutes were never going to come because death was never going to stop and neither was he. He was always going to do his part because that's just what he was chosen to do. Destined to do. Needed to do. And death was going to play its part too because that's what death did. That's what death was needed for. That was just how the universe worked.

Death wasn't wrong.

Without death, he'd have no job. Without death, he'd have no work to do. Without death, life would be meaningless.

Without death, so would he.

"582 Westland Avenue," the voice said, shaking him from his thoughts. "This the place?"

Lance cast a glance out the window and nodded. It was dark, considering how late it was, and it was nigh impossible to make out any distinctive features of the building before him. Still, he knew very well that he was in the right place. He could always tell with these things right away. He could feel it. "Yeah, this is perfect. Thank you." Immediately he began digging through his pocket to pull out his wallet. Once he had it, he fished for a hundred dollar bill, handing it to the man in the driver's seat. When the man took it, he began to exit the vehicle.

"Hold on, sir. I have to get you your change."

"Keep it," Lance said before he shut the door behind him. "I don't need it."

After a moment of understandable confusion, the cab sped off into the night. Lance watched it go until it became another black speck in the distance. With a sigh, he turned back to the building behind him and took a quick glance at his watch. 3:42 AM. He was right on schedule. Without another second to spare, he began to make his way down to the end of the street. He'd only asked the driver to take him to this location because it made more sense to want a ride home to his apartment after a night out on the town rather than to a random park in the outskirts of the city, especially at an hour like this. It was much less suspicious that way. The park was close enough from here that he could walk there in the time allotted, but far enough away that no cabbie would think to connect him to the scene of the crime. That's to say if the driver even managed to remember his boring face. That's to say if this even made it on the news to begin with.

It only took him a few minutes to reach the park but as soon as he arrived, he could see he wasn't alone. Up ahead, near a picnic table, were two men. They were arguing. Shouting. They were angry. Then there was a shove. Then one of them pulled out a gun.

Lance watched, wordlessly, from behind a tree as the trigger was pulled. As one of the men went down. As one of them took off running in the other direction. For a while all he could do was wait. For a while all he could do was watch as the man bled and weeped and screamed. A part of him would always feel guilty for not having stepped in and tried to stop it. A part of him would always feel regretful knowing that he'd simply watched on, from the shadows, as this man bled to death. But there was nothing he could have done. There was nothing that he _should_ have done. If he had stepped in, he would have been shot too. If he had stepped in, he would have disrupted the cycle. If he had stepped in, he wouldn't have been doing his job.

His job was to help people, but not in that way. Not in that moment.

It was something that he'd had to learn over the years. Something that had taken him quite a while to really understand and appreciate. He couldn't save everyone from death. He wasn't meant to do that, and doing that didn't seem like the right thing to do regardless. Death wasn't the enemy. It never had been. Even when it'd greeted him so long ago. Even when it had taken so much from him. Even when it had taken everything.

Death wasn't a foe. Death was a long-awaited friend.

Lance reminded himself this as he approached the body in the park that night. The air was cold and the night was quiet. It was the sort of silence that was deafening more so than welcoming. There was something so odd about being in places like this, in weather like this, in light like this. For a moment it felt as though he really was the only person in the world. For a moment it felt as thought he really was alone, joined only by the company of the moon and the darkness. It was somehow a pleasant feeling, because only in these moments did it feel as though the universe had slowed down. Only in times like this did it feel as though the earth had finally stopped spinning, if only for just those five minutes. If only to give him the opportunity to catch his breath like he spent his moments hoping he could. And yet, despite the overwhelming sense of calm, Lance hated these moments more than anything. Hated these moments because they reminded him of how truly lonely he was in the world. Reminded him of how fleeting everything was. How, even when the world stopped and the weights dropped and the night embraced him, the urge to do something else was always going to be there. The urge to be someone else was always going to be there. The urge to whither away was always going to be unattainable.

He would always be haunted by this life. He would always be haunted by all these lives.

With a frown, he knelt beside the body and gave the shoulder a touch. All it ever took was a gentle touch for the souls to awaken. With a gasp, the man shot up, struggling desperately for breath. Lance scooted back to give the man some room as he regained his bearings. It took a moment, but when the man turned to him, he could see the pain and the confusion and the fear so familiar in his eyes. Even after so many years, Lance still felt those things too.

"Hi."

"Who are you? What happened?" The man looked down at the body he recognized as his own. He was lying there, lifeless. His eyes were still open.

"I'm Lance," came the reply. "And you died."

There was a moment of uncertainty and denial. There always was. After all, it was hard to imagine that one could be full of so much life one moment and the next be lying there dead in a park in the outskirts of the city. That realization was never easy. It hadn't been for Lance when it'd happened to him, and he tried to be helpful and understanding when it came time for others to experience it too. He knew what it was like and he knew how terrifying it was. Though still, after so many moments spent guiding souls into the afterlife over the years, it was hard not to get jaded about the whole process. Sometimes, guiltily, he wished that people would not care so much that they were dead. Sometimes he wanted them to go without a fight, without a question, without concerns. It was easier that way. It was faster that way. It was just better.

But that was rarely how it went.

"I don't understand," the man said. "I can't be dead. This must be a dream."

"It's not a dream, Miguel," Lance told him, reciting the words as if reciting a script he'd read too many times. "You got into a fight. You got shot."

"No. It can't be. I didn't do nothing wrong! I didn't deserve this," Miguel said. "I can't be dead."

Lance shook his head and stood, motioning towards the body before him. He hadn't gone to medical school in the entirety of his existence, but he didn't need to to know that the man in the grass was not breathing. That his heart was no longer beating. That he was dead. It only took common sense, really, though he always knew when the bodies had passed. He always sensed it. He had that sort of power. It was how he knew when it was time to step forward, to release the souls from their physical prisons, to guide them into the light.

"I'm sorry," he said, really meaning it. "But there's nothing anyone could have done. You were shot through the chest. You bled out."

Miguel took a long look at his body for a while, then took a long look at Lance. He didn't want it to be true but he knew that it was. There was something about the air that just told him it was. Things didn't feel the same in this place as they did before. When he'd been confined to his body, he'd felt heavy. Everything had felt heavy. Now he felt nothing. Not even the wind blowing Lance's hair. Only emotion. No more pain.

"So I'm really dead then?"

Lance nodded.

"Okay. I guess it was bound to happen eventually, right?" the soul asked, giving a laugh. Something about this was funny. He wasn't sure what.

"It was inevitable," he was told. "It happens to everyone and it isn't so bad. You don't have to be scared."

Miguel nodded with resolve. "I believe you. I'm not scared. This is just a lot to take in. I'm sorry. I didn't think anything bad was going to happen."

"But it did," Lance said. "That's why I'm here to help you."

"How are you supposed to help me? What am I supposed to do?"

"When you're ready, I'll guide you into the light. I can't come with you because it's not my light, it's yours," Lance explained, giving the soul a sad smile. "So you're going to have to go through it alone. But you don't have to be afraid, like I said. It isn't going to hurt. It's all going to be fine."

"It's going to take me to Heaven?" Miguel asked.

Lance shook his head. "I can't say. I don't know where it's going to take you. It's just going to take you where you need to be taken. Whether that's Heaven or not is not up to me. I don't know what's beyond this. I wish I did so I could tell you about it but I don't. I don't know. All I know is that you'll be going somewhere beyond this place, where all souls go when they've completed their physical journeys. All I'm here to do is guide you so you don't get stuck."

"Stuck? What do you mean stuck?"

Lance turned to the brightness descending from the skies and shook his head again. "That's not something you have to worry about now. Your light is here."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Just follow it. It'll lead you where you need to go. You'll be okay there."

Miguel took a hesitant step towards the light and turned to him. "So this is it then? There's nothing else after this?"

Lance shrugged. "I don't know. I guess you'll have to find out for the both of us."

"What about my family?"

"They'll know. Somebody will find you and contact them. Don't worry about that."

"What about the guy who shot me?"

"He'll be taken care of too. Don't worry about it. Once you go into the light, everything will be fine. I promise."

"I thought you said you didn't know what was over there."

Lance nodded again. "I don't know for certain, but I do know that everything is going to be fine."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I do," Lance said vaguely. In the same way that he knew everything else, he knew. There was no use explaining. The less he tried to explain, the quicker he could get Miguel's soul to the other side. All he was there for was to free souls from their bodies and get them to the other side. He didn't like rushing, but sometimes it was the only way. "Are you ready now? You don't want to miss your opportunity while it's here. You can't. You only get one."

Miguel took a deep breath and nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess." He took another step closer, then turned back. "Are you an angel?"

"I think a grim reaper is a more fitting title."

"I thought you all wore black cloaks and carried around scythes," Miguel said.

"You can't believe everything you read on the internet," Lance laughed. "A lot of it isn't true."

"You're telling me," Miguel mused, shaking his head. After another smile, he said, "Thank you, Lance. For everything."

Lance smiled. "You're welcome."

With a wave, Miguel turned back to the overpowering light and followed it. When he disappeared into it, the light itself disappeared into the darkness, leaving Lance struggling to readjust his eyes to the night sky. Just like that he was engulfed in silence again. Just like that he was alone, looking down at a cold, lifeless body. Left wondering. Wishing.

Satisfied that he'd done all he was meant to do, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and began the walk back to the residential area where he'd been left some time before in the taxi. He didn't need to stick around and wait for someone to find Miguel. That would likely take several hours, considering it was barely nearing four in the morning. He didn't want to be seen in the vicinity of the body anyway, in case anyone got any wrong ideas. After all, Lance had never wanted to hurt anyone.

All he had ever wanted to do was help.


End file.
